


Starlight

by Himitsu_no



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Feels, First Kiss, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, so many feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-08 07:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21472168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himitsu_no/pseuds/Himitsu_no
Summary: It would almost seem as if Aziraphale was as dense as he portrayed himself to be, a skill he’d honed in the centuries he’s secretly both nurtured and tried to wilt that shred of hope that clung to his insides like tar, blooming into delicate white flowers in the eye of a hurricane on the rare occasions his eyes met intense amber.No, he was no fool, and there was absolutely nothing wrong in his corporation. That song inside him had a name, and had been sung by poets since the dawn of mankind. He’d grown used to its rhythm, at times singing along, and others trying to get it off his head as an unwelcome tune.The point is – he knew. Of course he knew. And he recognized it in Crowley, too. There was reason it sang so loud in his ears when Crowley touched him the slightest, and he could hear the rumble and the wreck it made inside him, too. It was almost audible to the human ear, and infinitely so in the ears of a being made, and particularly sensitive, of love. Of course he knew.There was a distinct moment he heard it louder.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

Something felt off ever since they’d switched back.

For a brief moment he wondered if Crowley had done something unusual to his body, but he brushed it off an absurd idea as quickly as it had come.

It was like a low thrumming inside, like the beating of a song he wasn’t quite familiar with but wasn’t entirely unknown either. Like he’d heard it for centuries but never knew how to call it.

It became louder at times, and if it was when Crowley bumped softly against his shoulder or brushed his hand on his coat to idly pick stray hair, it could’ve been just a coincidence, surely. It would be quite the coincidence if it happened to drum in his ears when he caught his friend eying him with such deep affection and reticence.

It would almost seem as if Aziraphale was as dense as he portrayed himself to be, a skill he’d honed in the centuries he’s secretly both nurtured and tried to wilt that shred of hope that clung to his insides like tar, blooming into delicate white flowers in the eye of a hurricane on the rare occasions his eyes met intense amber.

No, he was no fool, and there was absolutely nothing wrong in his corporation. That song inside him had a name, and had been sung by poets since the dawn of mankind. He’d grown used to its rhythm, at times singing along, and others trying to get it off his head as an unwelcome tune.

The point is – he knew. Of course he knew. And he recognized it in Crowley, too. There was reason it sang so loud in his ears when Crowley touched him the slightest, and he could hear the rumble and the wreck it made inside him, too. It was almost audible to the human ear, and infinitely so in the ears of a being made, and particularly sensitive, of love. Of course he knew.

There was a distinct moment he heard it louder.

Crowley stood in the bookshop, his back to Aziraphale, unsure of what to do next. Such freedom felt new to both of them, and there was a part in them that thought of all the things they could finally do. Things to learn, places to visit, mundane dreams to fulfill. One would suppose that, living so long on earth, while not becoming entirely native, it would only be natural to want to try and live the things people spoke so passionate about. Perhaps Aziraphale would learn to cook professionally and Crowley would finally join a band. He’d grow his hair again and compose. And Aziraphale would love to bring him things he’d never tried.

With all the time in the world, surely there would be time for them, too. To fulfill their own dreams of blooms and butterflies and fire and earthquakes, and all things in between.

“Dear boy,” he started softly, two trembling hands reaching out to cradle Crowley’s. “We are free, now.”

Crowley turned to look at him, face unreadable, yet those betraying eyes behind dark shades would tell him anything he needed to know, if he’d ask.

“Yes,” came the breathless reply, an octave above a whisper.

“We can stop pretending now.”

“P-Pretending. Right.”

“Wouldn’t you like to, dearest?”

“Would… like to. S-Sure,” he replied intelligently and mentally kicked himself for it.

The angel meant to sound less insecure, but he feared anything louder than a murmur could chase the frail moment away. “Would it be alright… if I held you?”

Crowley sighed and his shoulders sagged. He withdrew his hands from Aziraphale’s and removed his glasses, nodding when he couldn’t trust his voice.

Of the many things one could assume of Crowley, it would hardly be that he gave the tightest hugs, in the gentlest of ways. They were unexpectedly warm, and at the end of long slender arms his hands were firm and kind in a way no demon would ever be capable of.

But he wasn’t any demon, and he was barely a demon at all, if you’d asked his angel. Crowley was one of a kind, almost as if made of something else – the same matter, quite, and quintessentially different. And if the demon trembled entirely and his knees bucked under the weight of the moment, he would never admit. If his eyes leaked of broken dams and floods and sunlight, his darling would never comment, his own overflowing endlessly like rivers carrying centuries.

Aziraphale pulled back slightly, searching and finding his bright and wet eyes.

“I’m in love with you,” he smiled. “And I am fairly sure I’m not alone.”

Crowley kissed his forehead. “I have loved you,” his voice was hoarse and low and sent shivers all over Aziraphale’s body. “for so long, angel.”

There was something in the way his thumbs brushed the side of the angel’s face, and how he stood so close, holding him against his chest. About the way Crowley gently held him in his arms that made every atom of his sing deliciously, deliriously, and he wanted to drink and bathe in the soft fire coursing through his veins. He’d felt it before – those days many centuries ago when he had spent too many nights overseeing the making of a play and his mind stubbornly miraged him and Crowley onto that stage and tangled on the creaky wooden floors. Oh, he’d seen fire.

And it made his human heart break out of his chest into his throat and it sang beautifully in tune with that drumming in his ears and the uneven breath so close to his ear.

“Is this okay?,” Crowley would ask when he reached to caress fair skin.

“It is.”

“And this?”, and he’d lean in to softly, softly touch his lips with his own.

“Ye--”

And he would ask that again, and again. As many times as it would take to convince himself that he was finally allowed to touch Aziraphale. His hands would slide down his back, then up, a trail of goosebumps where they touched. He’d press his shoulders, then slide all the way to the angel’s hands, enveloping his fingers and entwining as naturally as if they’d done it for thousands of years. Perhaps they should have, he’d think, but it didn’t matter. Or rather – it _did_, but it would be a shame to dwell on it now instead of savoring the taste of jasmine and rain, and the light that surrounded them in a halo, the soft glow emanating off their ethereal bodies in waves of affection.

“May I, Aziraphale?”, his name tasted sweet in his mouth, as did every bit of him as he brought his hands to his lips and kissed his palms. And his wrists, and his knuckles.

“Oh, dear heart,” Aziraphale sighed. “There is nothing you could do now that I wouldn’t love.”

“Nothing?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Within reason!”

Crowley smirked. “Within reason.”

“Yes,” he replied in a broad smile. “my darling.”

Crowley hummed. He could get used to this. This new name.

“My love. Dearest.”

A gentle kiss, and another. And a smile, a wordless promise. A reward for every drop of honey.

There was a time they existed when time didn’t, and there was a time existence was dictated by hours and days and centuries, but until time was invented by humans, it had meant nothing. It means nothing, at all, in times like these.

There were no minutes or hours to be numbered and counted, and if morning arrived too soon, it shone its first rays in Crowley’s hair, setting it alight in the loveliest shades of red. Aziraphale’s hand was still on his face, thumb tracing his lip, his mouth like feather on skin. On the worn-out velvet of an antique sofa, knees touched thighs and their breaths remained caught in their throats, but their bodies still wouldn’t meet. Not just yet – there was enough. More than enough to drown in.

“Crowley?”

“Yes?”

His whisper floated in the air like dust caught in sunlight. “Does this mean we are lovers now?”

“Lovers,” he repeated against his neck and rolled it in his mouth, tested on his tongue. Something bright shone in the phonemes. “Lovers,” he rather loved the sound of it. “Yes?”

Aziraphale smiled and nodded in closed eyes, carding his fingers through fields of copper. If he were to be very honest, there was a beast – a tamed beast was still a beast – that begged him to tug and pull, lick those lips apart and devour and drink and pray until they merged in white and starlight. But the better part of him would rather stay and bask in the warmth of this first intimacy, to savor each small and significant touch of fingers. There was restraint on his lover too, he felt it in every breath he held. The infinite amount of sighs, the shaking of lips that moved on his in the dark behind his eyelids, tongues tucked obediently away. If - when - they were allowed out… then so would the beasts.

Not just yet, Crowley struggled to remind himself. In the fog of his mind he argued with himself – _why the bloody hell not?_ Something helplessly romantic lurked in him, an

idealistic version of him that had waited thousands of years would say: _don’t rush this_. This precious, precious thing.

There was a point in time when he believed if he moved an inch in the wrong direction he’d lose Aziraphale. Too much too fast or too soon and there would be no going back, no one to go back to.

Now, however. Now he believed the angel to be all forgiveness and giving, as his own demonic hips hovered over him, knees pressed tight against plump thighs, on the very edge of his will. His frayed, shredded will.

Aziraphale mourned the loss of his heat when abruptly he stood, yet said nothing. He understood it when Crowley moved away and combed his fingers through his hair nervously.

He smiled knowingly and adjusted his own rumpled clothes, clearing his throat. “I believe this calls for a celebratory breakfast at that lovely café we discovered.”

“Yes.”

“Are you hungry, my dear?”

His eyes shot up to his hairline. “Bloody _starving_.”

Aziraphale blushed. “I meant-”

Crowley nodded and stuttered, “Well, I – Ngk, both. W- One… one way more than the other, but it doesn’t matter.”

The angel smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

No distance isn’t within-walking-distance if you’re keen on staying longer by someone you cherish: the further, the better.

They’d made an awkward attempt at walking side by side on the wide sidewalk before their bodies moved on their own accord and Aziraphale’s arm found itself around his waist, Crowley’s around his neck, pulling him closer eagerly as they adjusted their walk.

It would not have taken them more than twenty minutes under normal circumstances, let alone forty-two. But the exact same way their arms found their ways around each other, so did their mouths and hands, and more often than they’d care to admit another pedestrian would trip over their feet as they pressed against a wall, or bump into them when they’d stop suddenly for a quick peck, or yell at them to get a room when their hands just couldn’t get enough.

It must be said that Aziraphale considered himself the epitome of self-awareness. He knew of his shortcomings, strengths and weaknesses: while he may have a soft spot for working things out without violence, for example, one would be wisest not to test his strength. He could be insecure at times, but once his mind is set, you would not enjoy getting between him and his objectives. He was aware and proud of most physical characteristics and abilities. Yet he had not, ever, anticipated, _ever_, that he would feel this… _this_…

Not the burning desire, _no_, he was perfectly aware of it.

It was this… _itchiness_. This unyielding _need_ to be touched, this _starvation_, because it hadn’t been there in the first place. That is to say, not until Crowley touched him and unleashed something in him that... Well. Pull a face if you will, as absurdly and disgustingly tacky as it sounds, but until he had come to know what this… this…_love_ felt like, he would… he could _not_ get enough of it. He would drink jars and jars and still be thirsty. An entire ocean of it.

The streets of London disappeared under his feet, and the loud traffic noise dimmed to nothing. There was only the whole of him and the whole of his – lips pressed together, bodies warm against each other, that familiar heat rising from within. Perhaps he tugged his hair a little tighter this time, if the way Crowley panted was any indication.

“Angel,” he wanted to sound warning, but barely made it past a moan. It lit something inside Aziraphale and he had to make a strong effort to ground himself here: a public space, on their way somewhere he can’t recall. A snap of fingers and they’d be on his bed, he wanted to tell himself, and the temptation was so _great_. Ironically, all Crowley had to do was _exist_.

“Angel, no, let’s just have breakfast,” he managed to say. His fingers mingled in white hair with adoration, and he pulled his lover into an embrace. “Let’s celebrate, my love. The rest can wait.”

Aziraphale would have argued, with burning red cheeks, that they could celebrate _making love_ – and felt himself shake underneath layers of clothes – and _everything else_ could wait, and was he sure they had switched back? Was he still playing the demon? His thoughts didn’t seem particularly angelic to him, so overcome with something akin to lust.

If Aziraphale was sensitive to love, Crowley was an antenna for sin. He bit his lips and seemed to wrestle with himself – he had wanted to wait, go slow, enjoy every bit of it. _A bit prissy, ain’t it_, he heard himself say in his own mind. _What’s the big deal? It’s just sex!_, and another part of him would pout ridiculously because he’d seen way too many black-and-white romantic films he would deny having watched, and claim that once they’d gotten a taste, there’d be no going back. _So fucking what? Doesn’t seem the littlest bit like a problem_.

Give it another minute and that part would have won, drunk in temptation as he was, had Aziraphale not sobered up and pulled him back to the streets. “Come, we’re almost there.”

_Aw, fuck!_, Crowley heard in his head.


	3. Chapter 3

It truly was quite a nice place, if a bit unlike the places they’d usually go. The café was run by an elderly couple and managed by their grandchildren. The decor was far from fancy, but everything tasted as delightful as they looked, and Aziraphale would be damned if he didn’t try a bit of everything.

Crowley had very little to eat, content in just stealing a forkful of whatever his lover was having. _Lover_, he remembered for the billionth time. He smiled at Aziraphale, completely smitten. It warmed him, the word. It made him cup one round cheek and kiss the other. It made him pull the angel all to himself and hide his face in his neck, kiss that freckle behind his earlobe.

_Oh, Satan, I’m a sappy idiot_, he heard himself mutter in his head. He didn’t argue, feeling himself to be the very image of what he’d heard and seen of teenagers high on hormones.

“Well… won’t you?”, the angel frowned.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“A picture, dearest.”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, okay,” he mumbled and fumbled with his phone, opening the front camera to an awkward angle of his chin. It was embarrassing and it made Aziraphale giggle softly in a way it made Crowley want to die and also take several embarrassing pictures in embarrassing, awkward angles just to hear him laugh like this.

Aziraphale laid against his chest, hand coming up to tenderly touch Crowley’s cheek, and smiled. It took him a few shots to get a decent picture because he kept looking utterly stupid. He eventually managed to look only _kind of_ stupid, and Aziraphale smiled sweetly. “Our first picture like this,” the angel murmured.

_Like this_.

He genuinely thought he couldn’t feel any mushier, but _like this_ melted his insides like warm, gentle lava. There would be an entire collection of photo albums in a matter of weeks if it were up to Crowley. _A fucking lot of it! What have I become…_, his inner self mumbled half-heartedly, not at all upset.

Because it was just the beginning of something entirely unknown and bright as a small sun in cupped hands, spilling between his fingers and creating life. Trails of sunlight and lukewarm waters traveling all over his body, pumped by his very human heart. He felt as human as he’d never been, as ordinary and silly as they all were. As overwhelmed and enamored as they could be. Just _like this_.

There was small talk and comfortable silences and affectionate looks, and they were no longer stolen. They could ogle and drink in the other as they pleased, and if there were outsiders smiling and casually pointing their way, they wouldn’t have noticed.

There were fingertips that touched and laced on their own, and the angel felt the flutter of a thousand wings inside. There was something so primitive yet complex in the manner his body reacted to being touched. Admitedly, it wasn’t any touch, and it wasn’t casual – a brush of hands was enough to wreak havoc, but with intent... it _scorched_ him. He _ached_ to be touched, and when he was, we wanted more, so infinitely more, hungry as he was. There was greed on his skin and a rush underneath it, the never-ending drumming in his ears, the threat of drowning.

He burned and he ached for the touch of a demon, _his - _to appreciate and love and devour.

_Devour_. The urge assaulted him time and again, a flicker of lust sparkling in the fire kindled in the pit of him. Goodness, his beast would still scratch at him and it would take a strong will to place it back in its cage. He let it consume him instead.

“Are you alright?”, and he was pulled back to the burgundy upholstered seat in this lovely café, legs draped over a concerned Crowley.

He felt he should apologize somehow, but when his eyes sought Crowley’s, the demon understood.

“I’ll go pay.”

The walk back to the bookshop didn’t take as long. Not because they rushed down the same streets bumping unceremoniously into other people in their haste.

Not at all. The Bentley was conveniently parked right outside the shop.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Wha- I... I didn-”

Aziraphale smiled. Sweet, naïve Crowley.

The demon laughed. “Oh my Go- Sa- _Me_, Angel!! You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

_Oh, ya haven’t seen nothing yet, I bet he's into all sorts of--_, and he just _had_ to take his mind elsewhere but still had the decency to blush. The angel smiled coyly and shrugged.

In his own mess of a mind, Crowley wondered where he should drive them. He thought of using the very lame excuse of tending to his plants, merely because his apartment had a very, very comfortable bed. Oh, shush, it is dire obvious what is about to happen – and it has been since the first line, and Crowley is anything but a fool. Well, actually, he is every bit a fool in almost encyclopedian definition, but not in this. _Never in this_, he’d like to say in pride, and that could be true were Aziraphale not involved. Most of the time he’d be a blind idiot, really.

He wondered if he should take them to his bed of silk sheets or the bookshop. Anywhere would do, he knew, but the very things he wanted to do were best suited for a bed and he wasn’t sure Aziphale even owned one. And if he did, there would probably be books and dust and a _lot_ of tartan, every-fucking-where.

Let it be said he didn’t _hate-_hate tartan. He detested it. But the love of Aziraphale for it made him detest it a little less, at times even – dare I say – grow _fond_ of it, because whenever he saw it, he thought of soft white curls and old clocks. It warmed him and it made him miss the angel terribly. It made him buy macarons and truffles and crême-filled croissant as an excuse to see his beloved. So he didn’t, really, hate tartan.

All of it could be solved in a miracle, though, so there was no big deal. Still, he thought he should, maybe, ask.

“So… do you want to…” he started.

Aziraphale turned to look him in the eyes, tongue absently licking his lips. 

“…go feed the ducks?”

The second he said it he mentally slapped himself.

Over and over and over and over.


	4. Chapter 4

They wound up at the park because the angel was too shocked to say ‘no’. _No, I want you to take me to bed_, he couldn't work up the courage to say. _Just take your clothes off or I will_, not ever. So they went to the park.

One must marvel at the convenience of angels and demons and their _efforts_, if you know what that means. How utterly convenient it is to just miracle their parts away and not having to handle the hassle of looking uncomfortable and horny. Which reminds us of that time Aziraphale asked Crowley why he wasn’t horny. Up to that point he had never encountered demons that weren’t his own or the ones he saw in fantasy books, and Crowley did the mentally equivalent of tripping down five flights of stairs until he understood what the angel had meant. _Don’t ever ask that again_, he’d shouted as his cheeks burned and his insides screamed _Are you fucking kidding me?! How can you not know I’m alway—_

Back to the park, though - It wasn’t entirely bad. The day was unusually nice, not sunny enough that people would slap each other over a bit of shade, and for once it didn’t rain on any degree. There was a birthday party going on with children running amok on one side, nearly trampling on lovers’ picnics, and scaring the plump well-fed pigeons off, too heavy to fly high, too close to people’s heads for comfort. There were dogs running after the children, a mutt shitting in a bush and another stealing a hotdog from a child wailing like an ambulance. The park was seldom this chaotic, the kind of chaos Crowley reveled in. He forgot all about the boner he’d toggled off.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, saw none of that, annoyed as he was at the fact there was another couple sitting on their usual bench. _Their_ bench, how _dare_ they.

He was about to sit on the empty side of it in hopes of being so uncomfortable a third wheel to the couple that they’d desist and seek another spot.

Crowley frowned and grabbed his arm just in time to avoid apologizing for his companion’s ill behavior.

Actually – he almost _did_ want to apologize, to say “sorry, my boyfriend is a man of habits”, which was not entirely untrue. The point was… The point was, he wanted to be publicly heard calling Aziraphale his boyfriend, because he had waited for fucking millenia and he felt every bit in the right of doing so. So he swore he’d do it when the opportunity came up again. 

“Such a lovely day, isn’t it?”, the angel asked absently, looking at the quaint colored clouds that made the sky a Renaissance painting. “Reminds me of our strolls in Versailles.”

Crowley hated small talk and weather talk when it came from anyone but him. Him and those memories of a time before they could hold hands, but flirted their hours away in pleasant walks side by side. In hindsight, it was a marvelous miracle their head offices hadn't figured they'd been _fraternizing_ for centuries until recently.

“We can go to France one of these days, if you'd like,” we offered with a kind smile, the type he only offered Aziraphale.

(Not that he smiled at anybody else, of course. Except, maybe, at children. He had a soft spot for them, what with their way of not caring about pretty much anything but what they passionately cared about. Many times, in recent years, he had envied their mortal innocence, the weightlessness of having no responsibilities or an eternity to cope with. That had changed, obviously, and now he looked forward to every second of eternity he would have with the angel, without anybody on their hair. The picnics, the trips, the nights, the diners, the late-night conversations over expensive wine. Nobody would have imagined so much hope to fit the dark alleys of a demon.

“I would love to, my sweet,” Aziraphale smiled, grasping his arm and gently nuzzling into him.

Crowley felt like ice under the sun, and could not do much but reach out and cover the angel’s lips with his own.

Aziraphale tilted his head and held his cheeks, thumbs caressing him in the gentlest of ways. Crowley snaked his arms around him and the soft kiss merged into a tight hug. A magnetic quality of this angel and this demon, of attracting themselves naturally.

It truly was a nice day.

Love overflowed.


	5. Chapter 5

And spilled, the very minute they entered the bookshop. The second they tripped over their feet and landed onto a soft mattress. Crowley blinked and looked around him – so he _did_ have a bed, and it looked nothing of what he had imagined.

Aziraphale flushed and wanted to offer an explanation of some sort, but Crowley pulled him into another kiss and onto himself, holding his waist under the soft linen of a shirt.

It had started as innocent reminiscing lying on the grass and pointing at the shapes in the clouds, laughter and the memories of recent days. Sweet kisses turned into playful tugs of lips and quickly escalated into a miracle home.

_“May I?”_

There was something beautiful and poetic in the way they parted their lips and mingled, two beasts finally meeting. Oh, a beast would hardly be deemed a beautiful creature, if not metaphorically in the pit of two people so thoroughly in love.

_“Is this okay?”_

Does it qualify as poetic when raw desire breaks the dams of the heart and floods every cell, only to evaporate and meet in the air between wet lips and tongues and hands and skin? Is fire also poetic when it consumes everything on naked flesh and breathy moans and long-practiced names?

“A-Aziraphale… _oh_.”

The sound of his name rolling off Crowley’s tongue _like this_ for the first time was a marvel, something he ought to memorize with care. Absolutely nothing could compare to the feel of him writhing underneath and the chant of incoherent words - not the mirages on that Shakespearean stage, or the fantasies he’d allowed himself at times while he pretended to be reading quietly beside him. Every scenario he’d pictured were no match to the feeling of his beloved touching him and so gently invading every inch of his mind and his body, pliant as it was in his hands, pleasure blooming from where they met over and over and over. The ballad of panting breaths and soft kisses broken by throaty moans, the bridge of half-lidded eyes and the chorus of entwined limbs moving together.

There was beauty and poetry in how they melted and spilled and loved.

They loved.

A song ended, but the music kept playing long after they drifted.

When they wake, they will find that symphony was still there, quietly playing in the background of a kiss. A caress in the dark room, slender arms pulling him closer and closer and closer. The surplus of a love so immense it could make an angel cry. And if he does cry, he won’t be alone.

He would never again be alone.

“I love the sound of you,” Aziraphale whispered in the ill-lit bedroom. “and my name on you. All over you.”

Crowley laughed. “Ooh, kinky!”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I am, all over you.”

There was a silence and a pause for Aziraphale to blush and Crowley found he rather loved making him blush, even when he couldn't see it, and even more when he could.

"I love it, too."

"Hmm."

“Is this good?”

“Yes."

"Can I...?"

"Oh, definitel- _ah_."

And there it was - the low thrumming inside, louder and louder. Like the beating of a song he was growing familiar with. He’d heard it for centuries, a quiet version of it, and now he knew exactly how to call it.


End file.
